Requiem for the Lizard
by Time Lady Quazar
Summary: Mary Sue alert. This story regards my favorite character, based on both original miniseries, the short-lived series, and also the books.
1. Chapter 1

18

V: Requiem for the Lizard

Prologue

Bethany Carter missed her career as a field paleontologist. No one actually went out into the field much anymore, not since the invasion seven years before, though Paleontology had fared better than many other scientific fields. The Visitors seemed almost amused by their fascination with old bones and ancient ecosystems; maybe the reptilian aliens viewed dinosaurs as a kind of kin, or maybe they thought of paleontology as an undisciplined pseudo-science as some other scientists did. Whatever the reason, Bethany's branch of study had missed out on at least some of the oppression and hostility towards their brothers and sisters in other disciplines.

However, they had not missed out on the general danger posed to human populations; unexplained disappearances had quickly stopped most paleontologists from venturing into the field altogether, and the discoveries of the few adventurous souls that did dare brave the wilderness were poor, since no one braved more than a few miles from the nearest shelter. Most good finds seemed to occur in isolated, inaccessible areas that would pose too easy a target. An entire crew could be taken and no one would question it for days, weeks, even months.

Only in Red Dust-supporting areas would anyone venture for even those short jaunts. Most new discoveries now happened in dusty museum basements where unprocessed fossils could still be found by the ton.

But that was not what Bethany had gone to college for. Grubbing around for bone scraps like the rats so favored by the invaders was not for her. She wanted the Big One, the Find of the Century, the find that catapulted paleontology from its nineteenth-century roots truly into the twentieth century. So, after checking levels of the toxin in the wilds of Montana, a state rich in both fossil-heavy badlands and the harsh winters necessary for the life cycle of the toxin-producing bacteria, she told her boss and mentor, curator of the Museum of the Rockies, that she

was ready for a new discovery.

No crew would accompany her; none would risk it, even out here where the Visitors rarely came, where it was so low on the military radar that they simply didn't bother. Only Bethany loaded up her jeep with shovels, picks, all the necessary equipment down to toothbrushes and dental picks for delicate work.

"I wish you wouldn't do this," Mick Johnson, curator and the man who first inspired her in her career path, told her disapprovingly. "Finding a new species of dinosaur isn't worth your life. We've plenty to study right here, where it's relatively safe. Besides, even if you did find something major, you wouldn't be able to haul it out yourself."

"I can mark the spot on a map. Someday someone will be able to go back for it." Bethany's face hardened. "This isn't what I was meant to do," she told him, firm and resolute. "I need to be out there, like I was in the early days. The way our forefathers started. I want to be like Barnum Brown and Roy Chapman Andrews! I've gone soft, Mick. Terribly soft. Good grief, I've gained sixty pounds since the first mother ships arrived." She looked unconsciously towards the ceiling though most mother ships were still gone, only a few hanging ominously over the warmer areas of the world, and Montana had never boasted its own. "Besides, what if it wasn't a comet that destroyed the dinosaurs?"

She left the rest unsaid. What if it wasn't a comet? What if the earth's former ruling reptiles were destroyed by something that could be used against _them? _They all knew that it was the question that kept them in business, even if no one said it aloud.

"Be careful what you say. Don't let the wrong ears hear that," Mick warned.

Bethany's lips pressed together. She was no resistance fighter, but the thought that still, _still _there were collaborators, even now when the truth was generally known, made her sick.

"I'm going. I'll be all right," she said. "Mick, it's been over seven years. I need out, just for a little while."

"Be careful, kid," the older man said gruffly. He wiped his hands on his pants, removing the stone chips and dust deposited by the skeleton he was preparing, a pretty little compsognathus.

Bethany took his hand and squeezed it. "I promise, Mick. Don't worry, it's not like I have anything to inform on even if I'm captured," she said. "We're all just a bunch of lizard-lovers."

"Depends on the lizards," Mick said. "The dead ones can't eat you."

"Ha. See you in a month or so. Maybe I'll bring back a map to the first Tyrannosaur family group with nest and hatchlings."

"You said you'd be gone two weeks."

Bethany grinned. "Two weeks digging in the dirt, two weeks vacation. I need one."

"So do we all," Mick said softly. "So do we all."

Chapter One

She was tired, more tired than she thought was even possible, _embarrassingly_ tired. In her early career, she never would have been left panting merely by the hike to her intended search area! But she was having fun, too. She had a treasure of small fossils squirreled away at camp after only three days; not the Find she had dreamed about since she was a little girl, but some pretty teeth, turtle shells, and other detritus from the ancient stream bed she had stumbled upon. Her arms, back, and legs ached and trembled in fatigue and sweat soaked through her khaki shirt, but she didn't quit until the approach of night and dark forced her to.

She was ready to crawl into her camouflage tent after a supper of water, granola, and beef jerky, curled into her light but cozy sweats and looking forward to her sleeping bag. It got cool at night, and a fire was out of the question; she didn't think any Visitor craft would come flying overhead looking for prisoners-or snacks-but she wasn't going to make her location that painfully obvious, either. Yawning and shivering, she was reaching for the zipper of her tent opening when a pair of strong, wiry arms wrapped around her neck.

Bethany squawked as she was thrown to the ground. She didn't have time to register the identity of her attacker before a weight was on top of her, holding her down not by its strength but by the large Bowie knife pressed into the meat of her gut. "Nice, fat one," an eager, creaky voice crowed. "It'll do. It'll do." The knife jabbed as the old woman actually hissed at her. "On your feet, little rat," she ordered. "Up, up."

Crawling to her feet as slowly as she dared, Bethany measured her opponent. Wild hair and wilder eyes notwithstanding, she wasn't a figure to inspire fear. Bethany almost risked going for the knife, but, old as she was, the woman was strong and solid. Besides, the insistent prick of the blade was sharp, and the woman did not seem afraid to use it.

She wasn't going to stand and be shish kebob, though. Bethany turned to run, but the woman

was blindingly fast, sweeping her feet out from under her and adding a shove to make sure

Bethany hit the ground hard.

Bethany grunted as the breath left her lungs, straining to get it back. The woman took advantage of her dazed moment to pull her arms behind her back and wrap a length of tough, prickly rope around her wrists in a figure eight pattern, pulling the bindings burningly tight.

"Up, up," she repeated, pressing the blade into the space between Bethany's shoulder blades hard enough to split her shirt, and the skin beneath it.

Bethany struggled to her feet. "What is this, _The Hills Have Eyes?"_ she bawled. Why had she been worried about space men? Hillbillies were the problem of the day!

Flicking her grey hair out of her eyes, the woman snarled. Holding firmly onto the rope that tied Bethany's wrists, she kept the knife in contact with the girl's body. "Try anything and I'll gut you right here," she warned, and Bethany believed her. "Move. Keep up the pace, but if you run again I'll hamstring you and you can crawl."

Bethany swallowed hard. The old bird was cracked as a walnut. She guided her prisoner by hard tugs on the rope; Bethany could feel blood trickling from under the ropes and winced at every pull. They walked for what had to be several miles, their path lit only by the gibbous moon. After half a night's hike, scrubby vegetation gave way to stunted trees, then taller evergreens. Finally they were stumbling through thick forest in almost pure darkness. Bethany's breath came in hard pants, her mouth dry and dust-coated. Her legs were beginning to seize from the buildup of lactic acid before she heard a satisfied snort behind her. Raising her head to study her surroundings, Bethany saw a dim light wavering from a small break in the tree wall that surrounded them.

A little cabin squatted in the trees, like the woman solid despite its apparent age. Bethany

eyed the heavy door and double-fist-sized padlock hanging from it. She considered yanking away the rope and running, but there was no chance of her making it more than a few steps; her captor seemed almost as fresh as when their journey started. She struggled experimentally and the woman's reaction was as swift as Bethany was afraid it would be; using the rope as a handle, she shoved her face-first into the nearest tree with enough force to make Bethany dizzy.

The girl staggered, recognizing the pressure around her eye socket as an impending shiner. The woman pulled her back and rammed her against the tree again just to make a point. "Enough of that. Too much struggle makes you tough. As it is I'll have to wait."

"You horrible old crone," Bethany muttered. "You are seriously sick."

"Quiet, you little monkey. Don't speak to your betters without being spoken to first." Dragging Bethany to the door, she kicked it open and thrust her inside, following her in and slamming the door shut behind them.

Bethany tried to resist as she was dragged into the farthest corner of the one-room cabin, receiving another slice from the Bowie knife across her shoulder blade. She flinched, then again as the woman used the blade to slice through the rough rope binding her, removing it from her raw, bloody wrists to replace it on her left arm with the cold, rusty metal of one half of an old pair of handcuffs. The other cuff was snapped around an iron bar embedded in the wall.

"I am going to bed," the old woman snarled. "Both of you stay quiet."

Both of you? Glancing around in the dim light of a single kerosene lantern that hung on a hook beside the door, Bethany noticed for the first time another figure curled deep in the other corner. A chain clanked as the shadowed shape shifted its weight to turn lifeless eyes on her.

Bethany blinked. The untidy hair was so dirty that, though she guessed that it had started out as a golden-blonde shade from the way an occasional strand glinted in the dimness, she couldn't be sure. His strong, square jaw line was tight and tense and he fingered the metal cuff he wore around one wrist, an implement straight out of the dark ages, that attached the chain that held him to a bar identical to the one that kept her prisoner.

The most startling thing was that the man was not human. A large swath of the grubby plastic skin that covered the rest of him was missing from the side of his face; from the corner of his eye back to the angle of his jaw and down his neck, green scales showed, marred by a thick scar running along the center of the exposed patch. The eye on that side of his face blazed yellow and red with a slit pupil, though the other one was a mild shade of brown. One arm was also missing its human disguise, revealing a clawed hand and patches of green, scaled skin that seemed uneven and warped, perhaps from a burn.

Bethany hadn't seen a Visitor from this close in a long time, except on TV, and then only in full human guise. The red uniform was missing from this one; instead, he wore jeans, a plaid shirt, and a khaki vest that had seen their best days many years ago. Despite her situation, she ached to discuss with him his planet's history, what sort of creatures their version of anthropologists theorized that they had evolved from. Had there ever been an Age of Mammals on their planet, the way Earth had its Age of Reptiles? Were there any mammals on their planet at all?

Recognizing the analysis as a way to cover her growing panic, Bethany turned away to force herself to stop staring. "Sorry," she whispered. "You startled me."

He didn't answer, just curled up on the floor, turning his back to her and stretching out the scaly arm in an apparent effort to keep the chain as far away from himself as possible. Bethany envied him; she tried to close her eyes, but the twitching of overused muscles in her legs kept her painfully tuned to reality.

Reddish light was just nudging its way past the crack under the door when the old woman's snoring stuttered and stopped with a heavy grunt. She rose from her ragged cot, clearing her throat noisily. Bethany had to concentrate on not flinching when the tough, wrinkled form moved past her to the door, wrenching it open so she could stumble out into the dawn.

Bethany groaned. No bathroom, she realized. The "facilities" were behind whichever tree you chose. Not that she was feeling a need; indeed, her mouth felt like the underside of a leather saddle after her long hike and no water breaks the night before.

After a few minutes the old woman appeared carrying two tin cups and an old, cracked ceramic pitcher filled with water. She poured a cup for herself and drained it, then a second. She half-filled the other tin cup and thrust it towards the bound Visitor. "Drink up, my hunter. I'll want breakfast in a bit." Pouring the last of the water in her own cup, she drank all but a swallow or two, scowled down at it, and put it on the floor, sliding it with her toe towards Bethany. "Dinner doesn't need much," she sneered. "Can't let you get too dehydrated, though. Affects the taste."

Bethany hesitated before picking it up. She didn't want to touch anything that had been in contact with the old woman's lips, but her throat felt like tumbleweeds must have taken up residence. She lifted the cup reluctantly, swishing the first sip around her mouth and draining the second. She stared down into the empty cup wistfully, setting it down with a sigh.

Their captor snorted and disappeared outside again. Glancing warily at the door, Bethany's Visitor companion set his own cup on the floor, nudging it into her reach with his foot.

Looking at him in questioning surprise, Bethany shook her head and tried to push it back. He put his foot out to keep her from moving it any closer, his brow wrinkled in what looked like worry. Bethany eyed him and reached slowly for the cup. He nodded emphatically; snatching it, Bethany gulped the water gratefully and tossed the cup back. He grabbed it out of the air and scuttled back into position just as the old woman returned. Bethany kept her eyes on her fellow prisoner; when the woman turned her back on them, the corners of his mouth lifted into the shade of a smile. Bethany returned it hesitantly, glad for an ally even if he was green. Of course it could all be an act, but under the remnants of his human disguise, there was a haggard quality to his face and body that made her suspect that he had been here a long time.

The old woman gave a dry chuckle. "No use passing those meaningful looks with my supper," she said to her original prisoner. She held a small, boxy instrument in her hand, tossing it casually into the air and catching it again. "But that's later. Right now I want breakfast."

The Visitor stiffened, watching his captor warily. Her mouth split into an ugly smile; pointing the instrument at him, she pushed one of several inset buttons.

Curling around himself in a painful convulsion, the visitor groaned, the sound more ghastly for the resonance in his voice. The woman's laugh sounded like an old hen's cackle. Bethany gasped, horrified, at the sight of his clenched, shaking hands and the grimace that twisted his face. "Stop it!" she finally squawked. "Leave him alone!"

"Just reminding him what happens if he tries to run while he's finding my breakfast," the woman said mildly. Slipping a large, black key out of her pocket, she leaned over the gasping Visitor to unlock the manacle from his scaly wrist. "Come on, you. I'm hungry, and I'm too old and slow to do it myself."

Bethany watched the Visitor climb slowly to his feet, aiming a cold stare at the old woman's back when she turned to open the door. She ushered him outside imperiously, her lip lifted. "Hurry up, Fifth Column scum," she ordered.

Bethany wondered if he really was part of the Fifth Column, or if this was some kind of elaborate trick to try to get information out of Bethany. She stopped wondering after a few seconds; she was nobody, had no access to anything the Visitors would want to know, unless they had developed a sudden interest in Earth's late Cretaceous period.

Something that had been nudging at the back of her mind suddenly flashed to the forefront. What was a Visitor doing out here, anyway? Harsh winters let the Red Dust bacteria renew and multiply, keeping the environment safely poisonous. Was it wearing off even here? She gulped hard, trying not to think of the ramifications.

The door slamming open interrupted her musings. The old woman strode in, followed meekly by her Visitor prisoner. Meek in manner, anyway; his expression was anything but. He carried something in his hands, a wriggling animal of some sort, maybe a gopher. It squealed frantically, struggling and trying to bite. His throat moved in a hard swallow and Bethany realized that he had already eaten something. Oh, well, they were essentially big lizards. At least they didn't eat like Komodo dragons.

"Shouldn't you be dead?" she asked, eyeing the terrified rodent. "This is Red Dust territory."

Glancing away from their captor, the Visitor shook his head, that bitter half-smile making a fleeting appearance. The old woman snorted. "Quiet, you. No, you're looking at two of the few with a natural immunity."

Two of the few . . . ? Bethany stared at her, puzzled. Was she saying she was a Visitor? But her voice didn't vibrate, though now that was not a definite giveaway since most of the Visitors had learned to control it to the point of sounding human. There were other clues, though; she showed no real aversion to bright light, and when she'd held Bethany down, she had been warm, warmer than the surrounding air, and damp with sweat, definitely mammalian. Bethany blinked, glancing at her fellow prisoner. When the woman turned away to rummage around in the single battered cupboard, Bethany pointed at the woman, to her own head, and to the Visitor, her brows raised in question. _She thinks she's like you?_ she mouthed.

He cocked his head at her, thought a moment, and nodded once, slowly, his face grim. Bethany's eyes widened in surprise and she turned to look harder at the old woman.

She turned back to them, a knife in her hand, smaller than the one that Bethany could almost still feel slicing her flesh. Snatching the rodent from her Visitor captive, she slit its throat in a motion so quick it made Bethany jump. She slit the skin from throat to between its back legs and deftly peeled it away almost as fast. "Old teeth and jaws aren't what they once were," she murmured regretfully, and snaked her head down to take a bite out of the animal's haunch.

Bethany's stomach lurched; she put a hand to her mouth, feeling cold sweat break out on her forehead. She wanted to look away, but the woman's red-smeared, smacking lips were almost hypnotizing, holding her gaze as firmly as the handcuffs held her wrist.

The woman finished her grisly meal with every hint of enjoyment. "Lovely," she sighed, tossing the scraps away. "You monkeys have no idea how to enjoy your food. Heating it up and burning it-barbaric! Doing such a thing to your vegetables is bad enough, but to do it to meat . . . it's so dead. You're one step away from carrion-eating scavengers."

Bethany eyed the leftovers; not much remained besides hide and skeleton, but the cabin was already close and warm. They were going to start stinking very soon. The old woman scowled at the Visitor. "Go on, bury it outside. Don't need it rotting in here. If you're not back in five minutes, you know what's going to happen."

He didn't bother to glare, just swept the remains up and left, returning just as silently well before his allotted time was up. The old woman looked disappointed, fingering the cruel little device lovingly. The Visitor crouched in his corner, watching her through the dirty hair that straggled forward to obscure his eyes. Snorting, the old woman turned jerkily, pulling a key out of her pocket and stomping to Bethany's side. "Come on, you little rat. You can make yourself useful until I'm sure your meat is edible. I've a garden to tend, you can water it and weed it."

Bethany stiffened in anticipation; if she could only get far enough away from the mad old thing, she could get enough of a lead to run. But the hope didn't last long; the handcuff the woman removed was replaced by a long coil of rope tied around Bethany's waist and attached to the woman's wrist. "Try and run and you'll be gutted early, and a lot more slowly," the woman threatened.

"Garden? I thought you ate meat," Bethany said.

"I do, mostly. But a raw vegetable now and then is good for the system. Besides, a garden is good bait for the little wriggly Earth things that taste so good. No chatter, now. Work." She kicked at the Visitor in passing. "You too, traitor scum."

Bethany couldn't say she was sorry to be outside; the cabin was not air conditioned or well ventilated, and on a ninety-plus degree day, three people in the single room was making it musty, even when one was ectothermic. At least she was kneeling in the fresh-smelling dirt in a neat green garden.

The trouble was, she wasn't a botanist. The carrots were fairly easy to recognize, and the lettuce, but the rest just looked like bundles of leaves to her, and if a weed was growing too close to one of the desirable plants, it was sometimes hard to tell which was what.

In a row of what might have been beets, she reached hesitantly for what she thought was a weed. A gentle touch on her wrist, cool and scaled, stopped her. The Visitor, crouched next to her, shook his head and pointed a green, clawed finger to the slightly larger plant. She obediently pulled it instead, tossing the little bundle of leaves and twisted roots away from the neat rows.

She learned to recognize the vegetables fairly quickly, and the most common weeds. After an hour baking in the sun, she and her alien partner hauled buckets from a rain barrel and carefully watered the rows of carrots, beets, peas, tomatoes, peppers, and lettuce. Bethany made sure to spill a bit over her hot hands, sighing at the small relief it gave her.

"Get her a drink!" their overseer ordered. "Dehydration leads to sour meat."

When the Visitor brought her a brimming cup of the sun-warmed but temptingly wet liquid, she considered throwing it in the woman's face, but she couldn't stop herself from guzzling it. She could have groaned in pleasure at the sensation of the Sahara in her mouth being washed away.

She froze with the cup still held to her lips; the woman was circling, poking her here and there-waist, upper arm, middle of the chest-her lips pursed thoughtfully. "Three days. Keep you working light, eating light, drinking plenty, meat'll be nice and sweet."

Bethany couldn't suppress a shiver. The Visitor gently took the cup from her suddenly trembling hand. He refilled it and held it out; she shook her head. She would never be able to swallow it past the glass shards in her gut.

She was almost grateful when the old woman dragged her back inside. At least she was out of the sun. The back of her neck tingled with the beginning stages of a bad sunburn and she knew she would be hurting the next day. At least the bedtime sweats she still wore covered most of the rest of her body, though it was not the outfit she would have chosen for working outside in a garden at the end of a Montana summer.

Bethany winced as the woman put her back in the handcuffs, the knife held ready to slice at any hint of rebellion; dark bruises were already forming where the metal dug in, over flesh rubbed raw by harsh rope fibers.

Waving the small, boxy control threateningly, the old woman sent her Visitor prisoner for what she called "provisions." He returned with a handful of garden vegetables and another squealing little animal, this time a squirrel, evidence of a Visitor's quick reflexes. She took the struggling, biting little creature and coolly twisted its head. It quivered for a moment, then fell limp. Grunting in satisfaction, the woman shoved her supplier back into his corner and chained him.

His mismatched eyes glittered as he watched their gaoler take her meal outside with her skinning knife. When the door closed behind her, he tossed Bethany two carrots and a tomato, already washed, keeping a carrot for himself.

Bethany couldn't bring herself to refuse. Her stomach was so empty that it was starting to cramp. The carrots were deliciously sweet; it was hard to eat them slowly, but she forced herself to chew them thoroughly before swallowing each small bite. The tomato she savored, careful not to drip any of the tangy juice. Delicious.

Leaning against the wall, Bethany felt better. She examined the room around her; the cabin was small, primitive, and solid as the trees its log walls had come from. Grabbing the iron bar her handcuff was attached to in both hands, she gave a few experimental tugs, without much hope. Next she tried the handcuffs themselves, and found that though they were rusty, the oxidation was purely cosmetic. There would be no breaking either of the cuffs or the chain that linked them. Her only chance would be to wait until the woman was less than attentive and run.

The Visitor watched her efforts sympathetically. His scaly wrist bore evidence of similar, more desperate attempts on his part, marks where the edges of his heavier cuff had bitten in, more than once.

"How long have you been here?" Bethany murmured, keeping her voice low in case the woman was near.

"I don't know." The Visitor's voice was rough, long unused, making the reverberation more pronounced. He looked shocked to hear his own voice, unconsciously raising a hand to his throat as though surprised it still worked. "What were you doing out here?" he asked after the surprise faded. "Who are you?"

"Bethany Carter. Doctor Bethany Carter. I'm a paleontologist, and I was out digging around like an idiot."

He almost smiled at that. "By yourself?"

"No one else was stupid enough to come, but they were worried about Visitors, not batty old cannibals. I couldn't take it any more. I had to go out and try to do my job."

He looked amused by her explanation, in a tired, hopeless kind of way. "Were you really a Fifth Colomnist?"

"One of the naturalized," he confirmed.

"I'm sorry. So how did you end up here?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I was . . . stupid," he answered evasively. "The woman used to be Mrs. Francine Simpson. She was . . . an experiment. They wanted to see how far the conversion process could go. She ended up as a kind of . . . pet. I was given to her as a gift after I was caught."

"Wow. They made her think she really is . . . how sad. And creepy."

"Yes. Why are you sorry?"

"What?"

"You said you were sorry when I told you I was a naturalized citizen. Why?"

"Because you must miss your people. Don't you wish you could go home?"

He smiled again, a little wider, and shook his head. "Not really, no. I had more friends here than I ever did in the fleet, and most of the friends I did have were naturalized with me."

"Oh. Sorry. Or good. You got a name?"

"Martin."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Too tired to keep her eyes open, Bethany fell into a doze. She jerked awake when the old woman-Mrs. Simpson-threw open the door. She stood framed by the purplish evening light, wiping smears of blood from around her mouth before entering. She puttered about the cabin doing eerily normal things-cleaning her knife, tidying her small collection of clothes, disappearing into a curtained-off corner to dress for bed. Bethany watched her warily and so did Martin. His eyes looked more alive now, calculating, measuring, observing instead of just seeing.

Their captor noticed the difference. She came out dressed in thick flannel pajamas, her grey hair pulled back and tamed into a loose braid. She froze by her bed, glaring at her prisoners with a heat that made Bethany draw as far into the shadows as she could. The Visitor stared back, impassive and unintimidated.

"My little hunter and my little dinner have been bonding behind my back," the old woman said, almost to herself. "That could make things more interesting." She caressed the controller she always kept at hand, an unpleasant smile curling her lips. "Interesting indeed. Have a good night, little ones."

Bethany glared at her, fear fleeing before disgusted anger. If only she could get free . . . a soft sound from her fellow prisoner drew her attention to him, and it was obvious he felt the same.

She waited for the old woman-Mrs. Simpson's name would haunt her forever-to fall asleep. Once she was sure the deep, regular breaths were not feigned, she very slowly stretched out her handcuffs as far as they would go. Then, careful not to clink the chain, she drew her fingers together until her hand was as small as she could make it, and she pulled as hard as she could.

It felt like her shoulder was going to pop out of its socket. She thought for a pulse-racing moment that she was going to make it, but the cuff caught on the widest part of her hand. Growling under her breath, she yanked, setting her heels into the floor and throwing herself backwards. She felt the already abused skin of her wrist tear, but even with the bloody lubrication, she couldn't get it to move more than another millimeter.

"You're going to hurt yourself," Martin finally protested, his voice barely breaking through the air.

"Don't see why that would matter since she's planning on _eating_ me," Bethany grunted.

"Don't. I tried for weeks," he said, absently rubbing at his scarred green wrist. "It won't do any good."

Bethany tried a few more frustrated yanks before giving up and crawling back into her corner. "This is stupid. I should have listened to Mick."

"Mick?"

"My boss. He said I was crazy to come out here, but I don't think this was quite what he had in mind."

The Visitor almost smiled, shaking his head. "You should try to rest. You haven't slept much."

"You too." She could barely see him by the moonlight shining through the small window, and she wasn't sure she was qualified to judge the physical health of his species, but he seemed tired. His only reply was a quiet snort, but he lay on his side with a soft clink of chain, curled like an animal trying to keep itself warm.

***

Eyes slitted open, Martin listen to Bethany's breathing slow and deepen, his mouth crooking a millimeter upwards. He had long ago come to the conclusion that humans were all crazy, and she was definitely at the head of the pack. Worse, she was a scientist, though not like any scientist he had ever met, of any species; brash, stubborn, and on the edge of annoying, her wild auburn curls and oddly grey-green eyes fit her personality more than the softly rounded face that gave her an innocent air, at least until her expression ruined it.

Silently as possible, he pulled back his bound arm, a slow, steady pull that tested the strength of his manacle. He knew it wouldn't be any different than the dozens, hundreds, thousands of times he had tried it before, but there was always the vain hope that he had lost weight, or the iron bar that he was attached to had developed a new weak spot . . .

Foolish hope; his chains were as inescapable as ever. Sighing, he glanced to the oblivious huddle of girl across the room from him. How well had the conversion done its job? Could a housewife from the suburbs really kill one of her own? Was her soul destroyed along with her humanity? Martin was afraid he knew the answer to that. Diana was very, very good with her favorite toy.

***

Bethany woke up when the sun stabbed her in the face. She groaned to herself, then yipped when a narrow foot caught her in the small of the back. "Come on, you. I'm not letting you laze about today. You can do that tomorrow, when you're sleeping in my stomach!" Cackling at her own joke, Mrs. Simpson grabbed her long rope and tied Bethany uncomfortably tight, unlocking her handcuffs and prodding her to her feet with an unkind toe. "Move it. You're coming with me for a scrub. You mammals have the most disgusting bodily fluids; I don't want my dinner spoiled by an odor."

Dragging herself reluctantly to her feet, Bethany scowled. It would be a good chance to use the bathroom facilities, or the thickest bush as the case might be; she realized that it had been more than twenty-four hours since she'd even felt the need. Nerves and dehydration, not a good combination. She let herself be dragged at knifepoint around the back of the house, where she reluctantly stripped and used a harsh soap to scrub herself at the smallest of several water barrels. The soap stung her sunburn, but rinsing it with water that hadn't had a chance to warm in the sun felt good. She wished she had something besides the dirty sweats to change into, especially considering that she was probably going to be working in the garden again.

This time Mrs. Simpson took Bethany into the garden as soon as she set Martin free to catch her breakfast, and his own. Bethany was better at recognizing the weeds this time, and was able to keep half an eye on the Visitor, watching him stalking the edge of the garden near what looked like some ground squirrel holes, first moving so slowly that it didn't seem real, pressing his hand to the ground, feeling for vibrations. He stayed still, so still she couldn't even see him breathing, for a long time then, with a lunge so fast that she barely had time to see it, drove his scaly hand into the ground and came up with two squirming, struggling little creatures.

His gaze slid to her and she blinked wide eyes. He gave her a crooked little smile and rose, dusting himself off. He walked over and handed the animals to Mrs. Simpson, who dispatched them cleanly with her ever-present blade. "Well, go on, get something for yourself. You're useless to me if you starve. Hurry up about it, then get our little dinner a drink and help her water."

Martin gave Bethany another glance, his eyes flat and emotionless. Bethany ducked her head and concentrated on de-weeding the last row of lettuces. She was grateful when he ducked behind the house; she didn't think she could stand to watch something as cute as the big-eyed ground squirrels being eaten alive. Though it probably would be better than listening to the woman behind her slurping the meat of their raw bones . . .

Trying to ignore the woman's sighs of pleasure, Bethany tugged savagely at a larger-than-average weed. It was stubborn and didn't want to let go, even when she heaved back with all her weight, both hands wound around it.

A cool touch to the back of her hand stopped her; she sat back, panting, ashamed of the frustrated tears in her eyes. Martin remained his usual silent self, digging his claws into the hard dirt and loosening the roots before twisting the plant out of the ground and tossing it out of the garden.

Bethany looked away, straight into the happy, anticipatory face of Mrs. Francine Simpson. She shivered, wondering what the woman was thinking behind that gleeful expression.

She wasn't made to work as long as she had been the day before, and Mrs. Simpson made sure she had her fill of water, watching close while fingering her knife to make sure she actually drank it. She even went so far as to toss a thick comforter into Bethany's corner after double checking the handcuff to make sure it was secure. Snarling, Bethany kicked it away; the more bruises she had, the better. Maybe sleeping on the wood floor would affect her taste.

Curling up into a ball, she tried to chase the thought away, feeling tears gather and fall. Poor Mick would never know what had happened to his protégé . . . on second thought, that was probably a good thing.

Night came swiftly and crushingly. Bethany tugged compulsively at her handcuffs every so often, but without any hope that they would suddenly rust through or grow a size larger. She fell into a doze every now and then, but woke from startling, bloody dreams. She watched the cabin fall into pitch darkness and start to lighten again, her chest growing tighter and tighter the higher

the sun rose.

At last, much too soon, Mrs. Simpson stirred in her bed, rolling over and rising with a yawn. "Beautiful morning," she said to Bethany, her mouth twisted unpleasantly. "Hope you had a good, long sleep." Stretching her way into her curtained corner, she dressed in her usual slacks and shirt, pulling her long grey hair into a pony tail. "Don't want to get it messy," she commented, deliberately casual.

Bethany tried to appear calm and unaffected, but she watched the woman's every move, drawing closer into herself every time Mrs. Simpson moved in her direction.

After her first teasing comments, however, the woman seemed to be ignoring her. Clutching her boxy torture controller, she unlocked Martin's manacle and kicked at him. "Up, you. We've got a busy day." She missed the flash of snarl that appeared on his face when she turned away. Bethany shivered, glad that look wasn't aimed at her.

Disappearing for a moment, Mrs. Simpson reappeared with the usual rope, tying it around Bethany's waist and unlocking her handcuffs. "Let's go, outside, little mouse."

With the woman's ubiquitous Bowie knife at her throat, Bethany didn't have a choice but to obey, but she did it as slowly as she dared. "You too," the woman snapped at her Visitor prisoner, waving the controller at him and motioning him to precede her out the door.

Outside, Mrs. Simpson took them to the back of the cabin, away from the garden and towards a large woodpile. She stopped with Bethany in front of a large log, obviously a platform for splitting firewood, and motioned Martin towards the wood pile, and the axe that lay on top of the freshest pile.

Martin froze, his wide eyes on Mrs. Simpson's face.

The woman gave him that mad, joyful, cruel smile. "You seem to enjoy spending time with our little dinner," she said pleasantly. "Here's your chance to spend every last second with her."

"No," Martin said hoarsely, the first word Bethany had heard him speak to their captor.

"No? You'd choose for me to do it? Trust me boy, you'll be far kinder."

His shoulders slumped, the Visitor moved to the wood pile, his steps dragging. Bethany watched him, her heart speeding so fast it made her dizzy.

"Hurry up, you," the old woman snapped. "I can't do it all. I'll have to hold her."

Martin slowly hefted the axe. It was big and heavy, with an edge sharp enough to catch the morning light and throw it back in painful glints. He swallowed once, hard, blinking at the weapon he held.

"Don't try anything," Mrs. Simpson warned, waving her controller. "It'd take a while to cook your brain, but it would work eventually. Not a very comfortable eventually either."

Eyeing the controller, Martin slowly lowered the axe to his side. Mrs. Simpson nodded. "Good boy. Now, you, on you knees."

"I don't think so," Bethany said, ignoring the prickle of the knife at the base of her spine.

"Don't make it any more unpleasant than it has to be," Mrs. Simpson said, her voice almost reasonable. "This way it'll be over in a second or two. Otherwise . . . well, it's all the same to me. Your choice."

Martin was fingering the axe handle, his eyes on Bethany. He nodded at her once, almost imperceptibly, his eyes flicking to the controller in Mrs. Simpson's hand.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Bethany started to keel, placing herself before the log, which would be right at neck level once she was down. Halfway there, she threw herself backwards, one elbow driving back into the older woman's gut.

Mrs. Simpson might have thought of herself as a Visitor, but she still had human reflexes. She grunted and went down under the attack. She lost the knife, but managed to keep hold of the controller, and jammed her thumb down on the main button as she went down.

Martin fell with her, his back bowing with the pain. Growling, Bethany rolled, grabbing the woman's hand and beating it into the ground until she lost her grip on the controller and dropped it.

Yowling and kicking, she twisted under Bethany, reaching for her fallen blade. Bethany wrapped both arms around the woman's neck, pulling her back. The woman bucked, throwing her head back; her skull caught Bethany in her already blackened eye and the girl's grip slipped, letting the woman make a lunge for her knife.

She crowed triumphantly when her fingers grasped the handle, and slumped with a queer, gagging groan when the blunt edge of the axe hit her behind the left ear.

Lifting Bethany from atop the limp woman, Martin used the axe's edge to cut the rope from around her waist. They both stood panting for a moment, looking at each other from inches away, each as surprised as the other.

Martin blinked once and backed away. Setting the axe handle against the log, he braced it and took a deep breath. Bethany was going to ask him what he was doing, but she didn't have a chance; balling his hand into a fist, he ran the inside of his green arm along the sharp edge from just below the wrist halfway to his elbow. The skin parted like butter, leaving a gash at least six inches long. It looked clean for just a moment, then blood began to bead along the edges of the cut, pooling until it ran, dripping onto the dry grass.

"What . . . " Bethany whispered, her throat closed tight.

The fingers of his opposite hand dug into the gash; Bethany squealed in protest and the Visitor hissed in pain, but it was only a moment before he grunted and grasped something, drawing it from the wound.

It was a green-slicked ball of metal, not much bigger than a marble, with eight short, slender prongs jutting from it. Martin looked at it for a moment before throwing it as deep into the trees as he could.

Bethany grabbed his arm, inspecting the wound. It wasn't as deep as she'd feared, but the blood flowed freely, coating the fingers than held his wrist. It was an odd sensation, the fluid cool against her fingers. "Oh my go . . . we've got to stop the bleeding," she gasped.

"It was a tracking device, too," Martin explained tiredly. He thought for a moment before reaching up and tearing off what was left of his sleeve, using it as a haphazard bandage. "Let's go."

"I . . . go . . . yes, but . . . we can't just leave her!" Bethany protested dizzily, staring down at Mrs. Simpson's unmoving form.

"Yes we can. Think you can find your way back to wherever you came from?"

"Eventually, but . . ."

"Good. There's a couple of canteens inside. I'll get them. You grab some food and let's get out of here before she wakes up."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Bethany stopped, looking around the yard. Yes, that was the first view she had of the cabin, that was the tree her face planted against . . . "We came in from this direction," she said pointing. "If we keep walking this way, we'll eventually get to my camp."

"Eventually?"

"It took most of the night to get here. It's going to be a hike."

"Then we'd better go. It'll be easier in the daylight, but the faster we get away from here, the better."

"Right." All right, sun to the left, landscape sloped for the most part downward, it shouldn't be too hard to find her way back. As long as they didn't run into a bear or a mountain lion . . .

They didn't encounter any large predators. Bethany was grateful for that; she wasn't sure either of them was in shape to fight or flee. She was panting after the first mile or two, and a little light headed, probably from hunger.

Martin was in better shape. While it was obvious he hadn't been treated well, evidenced by his scars and the dullness of his exposed scales, he had for the most part gotten enough to eat and drink. His step was surer than hers, and quieter. She felt like a klutz next to him. She was afraid he'd grow impatient with her, or even abandon her altogether, but he didn't. Though he kept casting his mismatched gaze over his shoulder in anticipation of pursuit, he stayed close to her, stopping with her when she had to sit until her head cleared and keeping his pace matched to hers, even encouraging her to slow down if she tried to push herself.

Downhill was easier than up had been, but she was still exhausted. Casting a quick sidelong glance at Martin, she scowled. She envied his strength, grace, and most especially his lack of sweat glands. By the time they reached what she estimated to be halfway, her shirt was soaked through. "We should be there by dark," she panted, wiping what felt like another gallon of sweat from her forehead and throwing herself to the ground, ignoring the dirt and pine needles.

"You're not drinking enough," Martin admonished, mildly annoyed. "I'd rather not have to carry you the rest of the way."

"You haven't taken a drink since we left, so don't lecture me."

His lips twitched into a smile not quite as ghostly as before. "I don't leak."

"Are you trying to be a comedian, or are you just picking on me because I'm a mammal? Fine." She took several long swallows from her canteen. "There. You too."

Taking a swallow, Martin rolled his eyes emphatically. He looked back the way they had come three times in less than two minutes, but seemed content to wait until she was ready to move on.

Her legs were shaking under her, but when he did it again she pushed herself off the ground. "Let's get out of here."

"Are you sure? You look a little pale."

"Pale as a cooked lobster by now. I'm sure. I want a bath and a real cooked meal and I'm not going to get either sitting here."

He shrugged and nodded, but she noticed that when they started walking, he kept even closer to her.

The trees thinned out sooner than she expected, the terrain growing rougher. She stopped to get her bearings, her heart stuttering in uncertainty for a moment, but she brightened quickly. That was the cliff she could just see from her search site, so if she oriented herself with the odd jag of stone and the lone, twisted tree . . .

"That way," she decided, pointing. "We're closer than I thought."

It was still several hours' hike through the sun without the benefit of shade. She finished off her water, then half of Martin's when he threatened to hold her down and pour it down her throat. She didn't have the energy to fight through the headache that started to throb at the base of her skull under the influence of too much sun and not enough sleep.

She led them straight, though. As the sun just started to fall behind the bluffs, she spotted her tent. "Oh, thank goodness. I'm starving." Her own voice startled her; it was as rough and cracked as her companion's, breathless and unsteady. She really needed to get out in the field more if she was in this bad of shape after a single day's hike.

They had to scramble over a steep slope of loose rock to reach her camp. Bethany fell with a yelp when a solid-seeming bank of earth shifted under her; she felt the deeper stab in her shoulder re-open when she landed on her back. "Thanks," she said, trying not to sound ungrateful when Martin lifted her to her feet. Flushed and growling, she let him help her the rest of the way down, feeling like one of the annoying, perpetually helpless princesses from too many fairy tales.

He just looked entirely too amused.

IN a few minutes they reached her tent. Almost limp in relief, she unzipped the front flap. Her camp was mercifully unmolested, her supply of food still held off the ground by a tall tripod and the rest of her supplies secure in her tent, including what she was especially eager to find, her two week's supply of water.

Tossing her empty, faintly musty canteen to the ground, she grabbed an empty bottle and filled it, draining half of the fresh, clear liquid in one gulp.

"Careful," Martin warned. "You could get yourself sick that way."

"I know. But it tastes good." She stopped, though, feeling a slight warning twinge from her stomach, even from water that was tepid rather than cool. "There's plenty," she encouraged, moving to her bags of food. She frowned as she untied the anchor rope and lowered the two large knapsacks. "Sorry. I don't know if I have anything you can eat. It's mostly nuts, dried fruit, granola and beef jerky. Nothing raw."

"I've been feeding myself for a long time," the Visitor replied, emerging from her tent with his own bottle of water that he sipped carefully, rather pointedly she thought.

"Not a lot to catch out here," Bethany observed, digging out a granola bar. "Could you get by with some dried apples? They're not actually cooked . . ."

She froze when a hand gently prodded her shoulder. "Do you have a first aid kit? That cut's deeper than I thought, and it's bleeding."

"Yeah. Wait till I clean up a little, and I can check out your arm." She shuddered at the memory, even knowing it had been necessary.

He drew back a little. "My arm is fine."

"Right. You just filleted yourself," Bethany snapped, following the granola bar with two strips of jerky and three rubbery apricots. She felt better afterwards; she was probably starved for protein and needing to replenish her salts. Getting rid of some of the grease would complete her transformation back to human. Grabbing a bucket she usually used to sift dirt for bone fragments, she dumped in the remains of her water bottle to rinse the dirt out. "Don't move. I'm going to wash up best I can." Dragging the least full of her water tanks out of the tent, she heaved it around to the back.

"We really shouldn't delay . . ."

"Just keep watch if you're worried. Does Mrs. Simpson have any way to contact the motherships directly?"

"No," Martin admitted reluctantly. "They got tired of her calling and begging to be taken back."

Cosing her eyes, Bethany breathed past the raking guilt. "We should have brought her with us."

"And done what with her? She would have looked for every opportunity to murder us."

"I know, but . . ."

Martin blew out an impatient breath. "I know what you're thinking, Bethany, but that kind of damage cannot be healed. Besides, she didn't start out as the innocent woman you imagine. She murdered her own brother. For an insurance payment."

Unable to come up with a reply to that, Bethany jerked off her clothes after checking to make sure she was completely out of sight. Filling the bucket, she dumped it over her head, shivering when the water hit her hot skin. She had only bar soap, so she used that to scrub herself head to toe, including her hair. She hissed in disgust at the sewery feeling of every inch of her flesh, and groaned in relief as the water rinsed it away.

Pulling on blessedly clean clothes, she tied her hair back, wincing every time her movement pulled at the slice on her shoulder. Her hair soaked her thin cotton shirt where it dripped, but it felt good against the humid air.

"Here," she said, tossing the well-stocked first aid kit at Martin as she walked around to the front of the tent. "You patch me up, I'll do you."

He caught it without effort. "I don't need . . ."

"Don't even finish that sentence."

***

He closed his mouth obediently and turned her around; she unbuttoned the top two buttons of her shirt so he could pull her collar down far enough to expose the wound on her shoulder. It looked bled freely and looked clean, but he wiped it with the harsh-smelling antiseptic anyway, feeling her shudder under his hands. It wasn't quite as serious as he'd feared; taping a bandage over the top of the slash, he tugged her shirt back in place.

"Thanks. Your turn." She eyed him top to bottom. "Unless you want to clean up a little first. You're a mess."

Martin glanced down. He was dirt-streaked, dusty, and couldn't keep the strings of hair out of his eyes. He was tempted to shed the sadly tattered human disguise, but most human's weren't going to stop long enough for him to explain his presence if he was caught. What was left did afford him some protection, at least from a distance. It would cause further delay, but . . . "That might be a good idea."

"Wait. I've got . . ." Bethany darted back into her tent, coming out a minute later with a bundle of cloth in her arms. "Here. They were my dad's." She thrust the bundle into his arms, her fingers caressing the khaki shirt. "I usually bring some of his stuff to wear in the field. The shirt I have on was his. Since I went into the family business, I thought it might bring good luck."

Martin hesitated, unsure if he should accept, but she pushed the clothes insistently into his chest. "Take it. They'll fit you better. I need a belt and to roll up the cuffs halfway up to wear the jeans."

He would be a fool to refuse. The clothes he had on were actually stiff from being worn for so long. How long had it been? He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Thank you."

"I'll start packing while you wash up."

He had to wash his hair twice to get all the grime out, and the rest of him must have come out three shades lighter. The dermal plastic really was a wonder of technology; he could feel the difference after it was clean. The new clothes, a short-sleeved tan shirt, hooded brown jacket, and jeans, though a shade too long otherwise fit well and were just as pleasant to wear as what seemed like entirely new skin.

Bethany was tying a bundle closed and setting it beside two similar packs. She grinned when she saw him. "Ah ha. You are a blonde."

"Not naturally," he quipped, reaching for one of the bundles. "We should hurry or we won't get away before dawn. Bad time to be driving around, even here."

Grabbing his arm, Bethany shook her head. "That wasn't the deal," she said, picking up the first aid kit. "Let me see your arm."

He thought about arguing, but the look on her face stopped him. He meekly held out his wounded arm, letting her turn it so his wrist faced upwards.

She used the same antiseptic on him that she had endured, and he understood why she'd shivered. She studied the cut, shaking her head. "That needs stitches."

"Well, since I can't just walk into an emergency room, I'll have to skip it."

Taking a deep breath, she used butterfly bandages all along the cut to hold it closed, turning whiter with every one she applied. "Are you all right?" he finally asked, growing alarmed.

"I've never been good with blood."

"Not even green?"

"I don't care what color it is, it's liquid and it's supposed to be inside your body," she snapped. "Should it still be bleeding?"

He shrugged. "You're the one who said it's deep."

Taping a gauze pad over the bandages, she wrapped the arm in more gauze. "That'll have to do. I'm no expert in first aid, but you guys are supposed to be immune to most of our viruses and bacteria, aren't you? As long as it doesn't get infected, I think you'll live."

"Good. Now, if you really feel the need to drag all this along, we'd better get everything loaded."

Bethany made a sound of agreement. "Car's under the tarp," she said, waving her hand vaguely.

He'd already guessed what the large lump under the camouflage canvas was. He pulled the cover back, ready to toss his bundle into the back, and froze. "This has to be a joke."

It was a large, rugged, older jeep that had been well taken care of, and it was glaringly, shockingly, blindingly pink.

"No joke. That's Priscilla."

"You named your truck Priscilla?"

"Somehow it seemed appropriate."

Martin closed his eyes. "What were you thinking? You may as well be driving a target!"

"Don't make fun of her. She's from the good old days of free travel and huge digs. She won't be a problem, not at night with no headlights. No one uses headlights anymore, anyway."

"You don't need headlights to be able to be seen in this thing!"

Bethany crossed her arms. "It's gotten me around fine since you guys showed up. You're being paranoid. Wait until the sun goes all the way down, it'll be fine."

Martin eyed the garish beast. "Are those purple flames?"

"If you're just going to make fun, you can stay here."

He found his mouth curving unaccountably into a smile. "Sorry."

Bethany looked at him, doubt flicking across her eyes. "Speaking of, do you have anywhere to go?"

The question confused him for a moment. The only place he wanted to go was away. Where had his lifetime of military training gone? Shaking off the daze, he could only think of one place, his old adopted home. "Los Angeles."


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Not a lot of reviews yet, but to those of you who have-THANK YOU for letting me know that I am NOT the only Martin fan out there. This isn't my best work by any means, but it is fun to write. I wish I had time to do my favorite lizard more justice and actually edit a little before posting the chapters, but if I did that it would never be finished (I am an editing monster, so best not to even start when it comes to fan fiction). Also, if anyone has read the book series, and if Freeport was not the right city, I apologize and please let me know so I can correct it. I can't find my books (wwwwaaaaaa!) so couldn't verify the location.

Chapter Four

Some of his experience as a photojournalist must be throwing off a spark of life, because he would have traded what was left of his human disguise to get a shot of her reaction-the blank, wide-eyed stare was one of the best he'd seen. Human faces were so . . . unsubtle.

"Los Angeles? As in L.A.? As in the City of Angels, now known as the City of Ashes? The heart of the war zone?"

He shrugged. "I have friends there. At least I did."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you trying to get back to the mothership?"

He felt the corner of his eye twitch and he had to hold back a low hiss. "Only if I have a way to bring it down."

Bethany took a step back. "All right, all right, no insult intended."

Relaxing his glare, Martin forced himself to calm down. Bethany looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, L.A. it is. Let's get out of here."

"_You're_ not going," he protested.

"Really?" the girl snorted. "Then explain to me how you're going to get to these friends. The airports have been closed for a long time now. And I'm not just leaving you out here to hitchhike. Forgive me, but it's going to be hard enough to get your face anywhere. I don't even dare take you back to the museum, and we're pretty easy going. People tend to kill first and question later these days, especially when they see green."

He glanced at his exposed arm, balling his hand so that the warped scales on his forearm flexed. "We can talk about it on the road."

"What's left of it."

They had the car packed in a few minutes and piled themselves into the front; Martin couldn't hold back a grimace when he slid into the purple velvet seat. The car started with a growl that belied its feminine attire, making him feel a little more secure, though not a lot. It rode rough over the uneven ground, and when they reached the road the ride wasn't much better on the more damaged stretches of concrete.

"I suppose it'd be safest to go west to the coast, then head south," Bethany murmured. "I hope you know where you're going, because I've never been to California."

Frowning at her, Martin shook his head. "There's got to be a way to get me a car. You can't put yourself at risk like this."

"We're all at risk," Bethany said. "Every day the war goes on."

"Getting in will be easier than getting you out," he warned. "I don't even have a way to be sure they're still there. Or if they're still alive."

One corner of her mouth lifted. "The Resistance still has their core centered there, and the Fifth Column is supposed to have a foothold with them." He didn't even have the chance to show surprise, agreement, or denial. "If you're not heading for the mother ship and you want to go to L.A. then they're the only choice left. I'm not stupid."

"I . . ."

"And stop trying to talk me out of it. I owe you."

"You . . ."

"West?"

Sighing, he gave up. "West."

***

Bethany glanced at her passenger. His head leaned against the window and he stared at the slowly-passing view outside, though she doubted he could see much. He looked . . . lost, a little blank, maybe even a little scared. "How long were you up there?" she asked suddenly, and immediately regretted it. "Sorry, don't answer that."

"It's all right." He thought for a minute or two, numbers flashing across the eyes she could see reflected in the window, then shook his head. "What year is it?"

She swallowed hard at the question. "Nineteen ninety."

He grew very still, his eyes just a little wider, the glassy gaze locked on the nothingness outside. Bethany stayed quiet and watched him as unobtrusively as she could manage, frightened by his expression.

The shock, or whatever it was, gradually eased out of him. She relaxed with him, not sure of what she thought he would do, but glad he didn't seem inclined to do it. Slowly his lids drooped and his breathing slowed, until his head lolled against the glass. It looked uncomfortable, but she didn't want to wake him so let it go, trusting that his physiology would spare him the stiffness her neck felt purely in sympathy with his spine.

Concentrating on the dark road became more challenging without someone to keep her awake, but her desire to put distance between herself and their cabin prison kept her eyes open. Looking for something to bolster her adrenaline, she reached into the glove compartment and dragged out the first tape she found. Glancing at the title, she grinned. Perfect. Humming in anticipation, she shoved it into the player.

The road stretched out in front of her, pale in the dark, the slow passage of concrete under her wheels becoming a hypnotizing hum of sameness. The only thing that kept her from slipping into a doze that might have taken them off the road, or worse, was the task of occasionally flipping the tape, or changing for a new one.

"We should find somewhere to stop. The sun will be coming up in an hour or so."

Bethany snapped out of her half-aware daze and jumped so hard that the car swerved, the wheels catching the edge of the road before she brought it back under control. Martin yipped, clutching at the door handle and staring at her with wide eyes. "Sorry," she gasped. "I thought you were asleep."

"I was, off and on." His face twisted. "What are you listening to?"

She had to listen for a moment to remember. "Alice Cooper. _From the Inside_. It just seemed to fit."

He gave her a look and she shrugged. "I needed to keep awake somehow."

"You shouldn't have the player on at all," he protested, reaching for the controls. "We need to listen for shuttles."

Slapping his hand away, Bethany snorted. "If one gets close enough for us to hear it, we're dead already. I'm not driving thousands of miles in complete silence."

"This is a war."

"I don't need to be reminded," Bethany snapped. "I haven't been able to do my job right in seven years. Nobody can travel, I've lost friends, and don't have any idea where other friends are. I may not be a fighter, but I am well aware that this is a war. I'm not letting it take away one of the few pleasures I have. Try to touch my tape player again, and you'll lose your hand."

"You are the most stubborn . . . "

"You have no idea. I'm tired, I'm sore, I'm hungry, and I am _not_ in a good mood."

"Fine. But we should still stop."

Bethany's temper disappeared in a wash of worry. "Are you sure? I couldn't go more than forty miles an hour, and I couldn't make it up to that very often or for very long. We're not going to get anywhere at this pace in less than a month."

"I might chance daytime travel in a different car," Martin growled. "This is an ambulatory Las Vegas billboard. Find a protected area. We'll park and throw the tarp over."

Bristling at the commanding tone, Bethany considered blasting her music to the fullest and keeping on, but she knew he was right, and worse, she wasn't going to be able to keep her eyes open much longer. Grumbling, she pulled the jeep off the road, under the cover of a copse of trees. Working together, scowling at each other the entire time, they had it hidden under the tarp in less than three minutes. Martin wordlessly walked off through the scrubby undergrowth, moving slowly-hunting, Bethany guessed, judging from the way he kept his eyes moving, and from the insistent muttering of her own stomach. Pulling out her supply of food, she guzzled a bottle of water and ate two granola bars, grimacing at every bite. Two handfuls of dried fruit sufficed as dessert, filling some of the dustier corners of her gut but leaving most of it demanding more.

Her Visitor companion returned before she was even finished. "You should get some sleep," he advised. "If you're really going to insist on this trip, it's going to be a long one."

"It would be longer for you if I made you walk," Bethany retorted, climbing into the jeep and checking that the top was secure before rolling down all the windows. "Wake me if there's any trouble."

"Do you have any kind of weapons?" Martin asked, without a lot of hope.

"There's a gun under the front seat," Bethany said, a little smug, but that died with his next question.

"Good. Have you ever fired it?"

"No," she admitted in a small voice.

"No," he repeated, unsurprised. "Let me see it. I'd like to at least make sure you loaded it correctly."

Bethany thought about refusing, but she doubted that he'd shoot her and hijack her car after going to the trouble of saving her life. Her hand brushed something as she reached for her weapon; pulling it out cautiously, she stared unmoving at an old, dusty pair of aviator sunglasses-her father's glasses. Hiding the twist in her chest, she whistled at Martin. "Hey. Take these before you go blind," she said, tossing him the glasses.

He caught them one handed, his reflexes too fast to be caught by surprise. He looked at her questioningly and she smiled crookedly. "My dad's. They'll bring us luck."

Smiling, Marin nodded, wiping off the dust and slipping one earpiece over his collar. Reaching again, Bethany pulled the pistol out of its compartment and handed it over wordlessly. He ejected the clip and checked it, grunting noncommittally. "Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."

"You see anyone human coming, wake me up and hide," Bethany ordered, curling up in the driver's seat. "Duck down in the back seat under the tent and sleeping bags." Her voice was already slurring, her eyelids telling her firmly that it was time for them to close.

It was still dark when a hand shaking her leg woke her. She shifted, finding herself covered by Martin's jacket, feeling damp and chilled. "What is it? What's wrong?" she croaked.

He peered at her through the passenger window, his hand still clutching her ankle. "We should get going. It's almost midnight already."

It took her a minute to re-run his words through her head. "What . . . midnight? I slept through the day? Already? Good grief, why didn't you wake me up when it got dark?"

He smiled gently. "Because you're exhausted. I would have let you sleep, but I don't think we should stay in one place too long."

Opening the door, Bethany slid out. "Right. Let me use the nearest bush, and we can go. Don't do that again. Mick is expecting me back in about three weeks, and the less I can make him worry, the better."

"Understood. You should eat something, too."

"I can eat while I drive. Stay here, I won't be long." She disappeared behind the thickest of the bushes, truly missing indoor plumbing, and when she returned to the car, she had to hide a sigh.

***

Their journey took on a rhythm; Martin sleeping at night while Bethany drove, and keeping watch while she slept during they day when they hid. They didn't encounter many people, and on the rare occasions that another car passed by or they had to stop at one of the even more rare gas stations still in operation, Martin kept out of sight in the back seat, waiting tensely with the gun ready, because not all humans were concerned with species brotherhood. There was a tense few minutes when Bethany was stopped by a highway patrolman and was questioned unmercifully, but she finally convinced him that she was harmlessly mad by showing him her precious stash of fossils. They both started to look wan and tired, and when they finally reached the west coast, he hated to make the next suggestion.

"I'll have to go on foot about halfway through Oregon. A car will be too noticeable once we reach Visitor territory."

Bethany's head turned slowly. "You want us to walk to L.A.?"

He shook his head. "I want you to go back. You've done enough. You've brought me further than I ever would have asked."

"I am not leaving you alone," Bethany stated firmly. "Have you looked at yourself lately? You look ready to drop at any moment. Besides, it'll be dangerous to travel that far alone. I think we'd both be better off if we stayed together."

He knew he wasn't in the best of shape; maybe it was the fog encroaching in his head that made him agree. Or it could be that he agreed; alone on the road without anyone to help keep watch would be at least as dangerous as walking into California. "You might be right. Okay then, we'll take a pack apiece. Everything else will have to stay behind with the car."

***

"Keep it light," Martin instructed. "Only the necessities. Water, food, extra clothes in case it gets cold, nothing else."

She ignored him and he blew out an exasperated breath when he saw what she was packing. "Bethany! Do you really need a bag of _rocks?!"_

"I am leaving my car behind," she said frostily. "I am leaving my tent, my sleeping bag, most of my clothes and all of my tools. These fossils were the whole reason for my trip. I am not leaving them here to be taken with the rest of it. I am not coming out of this empty handed. Besides, I'm not asking you to carry them."

"I'm carrying half your food. I can't even eat most of this stuff."

"Fine. Throw some of it over here. I've got a little room left."

"That is not the . . ." he trailed off at the glare she threw him. Stubborn, unreasonable, irrational . . . but he never would have gotten this far without her, probably wouldn't have survived, and she was also intelligent, brave, and good company, at least when they weren't arguing. "Scientists," he muttered, hefting his own pack.

"Army brat," Bethany retorted. "Drill Sergeant." She lifted her knapsack; he had the distinct feeling that she was hiding a groan, but he held his comment between his teeth.

Keeping to the same schedule of only moving at night, they followed they coast as near they could without moving through the open, or near any cities that might harbor a Visitor presence. It was slow at first, barely making ten miles the first night, but their pace improved as they grew used to travelling almost blind, until Martin estimated their average nearer to twenty miles a night.

It was obvious when they reached red-dust-free territory. The cities went from largely intact to largely blasted rubble. They skirted the city edges, keeping the portion of tarp they had torn off ready to cover them if they spotted the lights of a shuttle. During they day, they hid as best they could, taking turns keeping watch for more dangerous ground patrols.

***

"Are we in California yet?" Bethany whispered the third time they were curled up together underneath the small tarp in a scrubby ditch, waiting for a shuttle to pass overhead.

"A couple hundred miles," Martin answered.

Bethany was about to reply when she choked; the shuttle was landing.

Her teeth clenched as Martin shifted; she was curled tight enough against him to feel every muscle in his body tense, the arm pressed against her side twitching as he flipped her pistol's safety off.

Feeling helpless, she spied a large, twisted piece of pipe, the remnants of some blasted car, laying just past the edge of the camouflage tarp. Snaking her arm out, she carefully dragged it closer, clutching it tight.

Martin's chest rumbled against her back as he chuckled. "Good girl, but it won't do much good against lasers."

"Neither will a pistol," Bethany whispered. "Those aren't exactly armor piercing bullets."

"Their throats aren't armored."

Bethany turned her head far enough to look him in the face. "Are you really that good?"

"Don't know. I used to be."

There was no bragging in his voice, just simple fact. As they watched the shuttle lift off without its doors ever opening, something struck her as different about that voice- but what? The vibration, that was it. His voice still tended to crack a little, but it was smooth and even. "Hey, you do know how to change your voice."

He let out a short laugh. "The naturalized Visitors were the first to learn how. We may have been legal, but we weren't popular. It takes practice, though, and up there, there didn't seem to be any point to it . . . what?"

Bethany realized she was frowning. "Nothing. I just always liked your voices."

Martin sighed. "Better?" he asked in his normal voice.

Bethany grinned. "Yes."

"Gives me a sore throat if I haven't done it in a while, anyway. I think it's safe to keep moving."

Finding herself strangely reluctant to leave they safety of their cover-for reasons that had nothing to do with safety, or even her aching legs-she rose slowly to her feet and folded the tarp over her arm. "You are such a slave driver."

"Because you're such a good slave."

Sticking out her tongue, Bethany pulled the knapsack onto her back; it was noticeably lighter than when they'd started the journey, and she was starting to get worried. There were no more open stores or gas stations to fortify her food supply with. "How far to we have to go?" she asked nervously.

"A hundred fifty miles or so. We're getting close." He smiled. "Don't worry, I could always catch you a rat."

"Oh, good. Instead of dying if starvation, I could die of the Black Plague."

"Fleas spread the plague, not rats."

"Smart aleck."

He gave her a light shove. "Get moving."

***

It must have been around three in the morning when Bethany grabbed his scaly arm. "Look!"

Martin followed her point to the sky. Instead of the expected enemy, he saw light streaking across the sky. Greenish lines drew themselves between the stars every few seconds, glowing bright before dying away.

He stopped, watching the natural light show presented by the meteor shower, startling himself with an appreciative smile. It had been a long time since he'd just _looked_ at anything. It was an interesting feeling.

So was Bethany's hand still loose and warm around his wrist, not flinching away from the scales under her fingers or the coolness of his skin.

After a moment she glanced down at her hand and pulled it away. He wasn't sure in the dark, but he thought she was blushing. "Sorry."

"Don't be. Thanks for reminding me that there's still such a thing as beauty."

An odd expression flickered across her face and she moved towards him, one had partially raised, but she stopped mid-motion, shaking her head dazedly. "You're welcome."

They moved on silently, both of them glancing occasionally at the sky.

***

The L.A. mothership loomed even from twenty miles away. Bethany stopped when it first came into sight, her eyes wide and her heart slamming. "It's so big."

Martin just looked at her, his head cocked curiously. She flushed. "I've only ever seen them on TV. Hearing that they're miles across isn't the same as seeing it. We had a couple youth leaders in town, but they came on a shuttle."

He looked sympathetic. "We'll find them soon. I'm sure they'll be running fugitives out. You won't be here long."

Bethany just nodded, then she frowned. "I don't like the thought of you here, either. Are you sure you wouldn't rather try for Freeport? It's supposed to be kind of a neutral zone for naturalized Visitors."

Martin shook his head. "No. I don't trust it, sitting stuck between two entire races who aren't particularly fond of you, both who know exactly where you are."

"I suppose you're right. Neither side will trust you, and both will be watching and waiting."

It looked like he was going to reply, but a roll of thunder interrupted him. Bethany cursed under her breath. "Great. Still, I suppose we've been lucky up till now."

Lightning flickered faintly in the heavy clouds and another rumble was followed by rain. It didn't start gently or gradually, but pounded on them like cold, biting teeth.

Holding the tarp over their heads, they exchanged sighs. The canvas was not waterproof so they were soaked anyway, but it kept them from being stung by the driving drops. "We should find shelter," Martin shouted over the roar.

"At least no patrols will be able to see us in this," Bethany yelled back.

Their arms grew too fatigued to hold up the tarp. Bethany folded it over her shoulders and they let the rain pour directly onto their heads. "Interesting," Martin commented.

"What's interesting?"

"There really is such a thing as too much water."

They were still fifteen miles north of Los Angeles, so there wasn't much shelter available. On the edge of a suburb, all they could find were a couple burned-out cars.

"Better than nothing," Bethany grunted as they forced the blackened, rusted doors open.

"Hold it," a rough voice ordered behind them. Something even colder than the rain pressed itself behind Bethany's left ear. She shivered even harder than she already was, freezing in place with her eyes popped wide.

"Hands on your heads," the voice growled.

Following Martin's practiced example, Bethany slowly laced her hands on top of her head, staring straight forward.

"Now turn around. Slow."

Bethany obeyed.

Two coarse-looking men had guns pointed at them, one a pistol, the other a Visitor blaster. The shorter, meaner of the two had dark, receding hair lightly sprinkled with grey, beady eyes, and a perpetual sneer. The other was hefty, with sandy hair and a scruffy beard. He should have been the more imposing of the two, but his round face had an air of patience and potential humor that the shorter, leaner man's lacked.

"Well, a half-naked scaly and a half-drowned mouse," the angry man snarled.

Bethany's teeth were chattering not just from the wind blowing across her exposed skin. These were obviously not Visitors, but she wasn't sure that she wouldn't have preferred to see red uniforms.

"I don't know. They look . . ." the bigger man started, his grip loosening a bit on the blaster's trigger.

"You look familiar, lizard," the darker man snapped, pointing his gun less than six inches from the space between Martin's eyes.

"Tyler," Martin greeted, his own voice a snarl.


	5. Chapter 5

Of course Ham Tyler would be the first person to find them. Martin was not surprised, but he was not happy; their dislike for each other had not improved after V-day. The man's associate, Chris, was likeable enough once you got past the guns, but Tyler . . .

He and Bethany held carefully still as their packs were confiscated. That was actually a relief. It had begun to feel like the thing was growing to his back; his muscles twitched in surprise when the weight was removed, and he saw Bethany flinch in a mix of pleasure and pain as hers was taken.

"What's going on, Tyler?" a new voice demanded, a voice he knew, a voice that sent relief like a drug through his veins.

***

Bethany's fear was boiling away in the heat of her growing anger. She ignored the bigger man, all her malevolence focused on his aggressive partner. Her glare was so intense her eyes felt hot. His attention, in turn, was focused on Martin. He showed odd flashes of confusion under the belligerence, as though trying to remember something, but his gun stayed trained with steady, hopeful purpose.

A third man seemed to come out of nowhere, tall, handsome, wary, also holding a gun.

"I thought these were your friends," she muttered to Martin.

"Tyler isn't anybody's friend," Martin answered, some of the snarl fading from his expression to become weary wryness.

"Friends are a weakness," the man named Tyler said curtly. "And I'd never be friends with a gator."

The tall, slender man came closer, moving cautiously. He gave Bethany a cursory glance, but she was so obviously, annoyingly unthreatening that he turned his full attention to her partner. His eyes narrowed, the same confusion Tyler showed pulling his mouth into a frown. "Philip? What in the world . . ."

"Philip?" Martin repeated blankly, his eyes wide. "How . . ."

The tall man staggered suddenly, the gun dropping from his hand as his face turned white. "Martin?" he gasped.

"It's good to see you, Mike," Martin said quietly. He looked odd, smiling but . . . vague. His eyes were glazed and glassy, staring fixedly at the man he called Mike without seeming to actually see him. Ignoring Tyler's growing order not to move, Bethany dropped her hands from her head, grabbing the Visitor's arm. "Martin? Are you all right?"

He sagged and she gasped, trying to keep him upright. He grew heavier as more and more of his weight pressed down on her. His eyes were closing, his knees buckling out from under him, and he felt like wet ice when she touched him, as though he were being blasted by a freezing wind. "Help me!" she barked at the man named Mike.  
He woke out of his shock and leapt forward to grab Martin from the other side. "Martin!" he cried, shaking the Visitor, but Marin was utterly limp, his head lolling against Bethany's shoulder as she staggered under his weight. "What's wrong with him?" he growled at Bethany.

"He was fine until you lot showed up!" Bethany snapped. She turned to glare at Tyler. "Did you do something to him?"

Shoving his gun into the waistband of his jeans, he held out his hands. "You saw me standing here the whole time, lady."

"Let's accuse each other later," Mike said. "We need to get him inside."

"It's a trap," Tyler grunted. "We're going to be swarmed any minute." But he helped Mike lift Martin's limp form.

The big sandy-haired man nodded for Bethany to follow, not that she needed any encouragement. She trailed the men closely, barely conscious of the blaster aimed at her back.

They had to crawl through the blasted remains of a car that were cleverly set up to look like an obstacle instead of an entrance. That led to what was once the maintenance entrance to an old warehouse. Then they took a narrow, rickety set of metal steps that didn't look capable of bearing a stray cat let alone five people.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs still surprisingly alive, they were in an old, broken-down basement. The big man forged ahead, holding a rusted metal door open for Mike and Tyler.

Through that door, the world changed. People bustled about, carrying weapons, listening to radio equipment, or rushing off with handfuls of paper. They all seemed to stop and stare. Bethany didn't care; she tried to keep as close to Martin as possible. The man he'd called Mike seemed genuinely worried, but that didn't mean he didn't have something planned.

He stopped at the fourth door they came to, pushing his way through the door. A blonde woman who had been sitting next to a young black man, bandaging a cut on his hand, looked up and gasped. "Mike! What on earth . . ."

Mike walked past her silently, laying Martin in the nearest bed. Then he looked at the blonde woman, his eyes fearful. "He went down outside, Julie. I don't know what happened."

The woman finished with the last piece of surgical tape and patted her patient on the arm as she rose. "Not much more than a scratch, Bernard, but be more careful next time."

"Yes, ma'am," he answered cheerfully, rising and giving a jaunty bow. "Thanks, doc." He gave the newly occupied bed a single curious glance on his way out, but Bethany had the feeling that the story was going to spread fast.

Bending over the bed, Julie put a hand to her mouth. "Mike! What happened to Philip?"

"It's not Philip," Mike answered hoarsely.

"It's not . . . Martin?" she shrieked. "But . . . but you said . . ."

"I know, I know! But . . . I never had a chance to go back for the body until . . . then when I did, I assumed the fire . . . more than an acre burned. What's wrong with him, Julie?"

Julie's hands prodded gently here and there, checking the Visitor's pulse, his breathing. "His heartbeat is slow. Too slow. His breathing is the same way. His body temperature isn't responding like it should, either." She pulled out a pen light and shined it into each eye in turn. "Pupils are responding, but sluggish." Glancing up, her eyes flicked from one person to the other, finally settling on the big man. "Chris, would you go get Willy? He might know what's going on."

Chris nodded, giving Bethany a warning look mixed with an encouraging smile.

She couldn't smile back. Martin looked bad, when a few minutes before he was up on his feet and fine, if a little tattered.

Exhaustion, that was it. She felt like dropping herself, right onto the bed next to him.

She couldn't convince herself in the face of Julie's gravity, or Mike's worry. Retreating into an unobtrusive corner, she hugged herself, shivering as the hostile strangers swarmed over her friend.

"I'm going to start an I.V. line," Julie said, moving to a nearby cabinet and pulling out assorted plastic-wrapped packages. "Thank goodness Howie got those medical supplies to us. Our little needles just won't make it through that skin."

"Check his arm," Bethany said, having to work at getting her voice above a whisper. "I don't think it's been healing like it should."

Julie gave her a slightly flat look but cut the bandage off his scaly forearm. She winced as the angry slash was exposed. "That should have had stitches. It's too late now. You did this?" she asked Bethany, waving a hand at the butterfly tape that held Martin's skin together.

Bethany nodded, staring at the ground. "Changed it twice a week."

"Not bad for what you had to work with. It's going to leave quite a scar, but . . ."

"He didn't seem to care."

"How long ago did it happen?"

"I'm not sure. What's the date?"

"July second."

Bethany couldn't keep back a shudder. "About six weeks."

Chris slipped back into the room, followed by two more people. It was crowded, but Julie ignored them as she redid the bandages, the set up a bag of hydrating fluids. Bethany had to look away as Julie stabbed the back of Martin's exposed hand with a thick, vicious-looking needle and taped it in place, keeping her eyes firmly on Martin's slack face.

His eyes didn't even flicker. Julie's brown wrinkled worriedly at the lack of reaction; glancing up at the newcomers, she shrugged. "I have no idea what's wrong with him. Willy?"

The blond, curly-haired man moved to the edge of the bed, performing much the same examination as Julie had. Bethany relaxed; he had the gentlest face she had ever seen. "What happened?" he asked, glancing around at the assembled crowd.

"He went down outside. Dropped like a rock," Tyler answered.

"What was he doing before?"

Tyler, Chris, and Mike all turned to stare at Bethany. Willy followed their gaze and smiled. "Hello. Who are you?"

"Bethany Carter."

"You were with him?"

She nodded. "We spent the last six weeks trying to get to you all."

She expected an interrogation to begin then, but he only nodded. "Was he injured in any way?"

"Only his arm."

Willy frowned then, his brow wrinkling. "I don't understand. He seems to be deep in hibernation, but without injury or trauma, although the trauma would not need to be only physical."

"What does that mean?" Bethany asked.

"It means his body is trying to heal itself. All of his energy is being . . ." he hesitated. "Calibrated?" he asked. "All of it is being put to healing . . ."

"Concentrated?" Bethany guessed.

"Yes. Thank you. I am much better at English, but still not perfect."

Bethany smiled at the man who had just confirmed her suspicion that he was a Visitor. "You're fine. I had a friend in Montana who was supposed to be in Africa and learned Swahili. Did the same thing happen to you?"

Willy dipped his head in a surprised nod.

"It was hard on him, too. English is one of the hardest languages to learn because half the time the rules don't make sense." Her smile faded. "Is he going to be all right?"

"I don't know." Willy's voice dropped low. "Either he will heal and wake up, or he will slip further into hibernation until . . ."

"No," Bethany moaned. She felt tears coat her eyes and fought; she did not want to cry in front of these hostiles.

Willy reached out and touched her hand with his cool one. "He was always on of the strongest of us."

The second newcomer, a pretty, slightly mousy woman, added her touch-cool, so she was also a Visitor. "He'll be all right."

Her big eyes, like Willy's, were kind. Bethany tried to smile, but instead her tightly-wound control snapped and a tear escaped.

"Another damned lizard-lover," Tyler growled scornfully. "Just what we need. They're worse than the lizards."

"Ham!" Mike roared as Julie gasped.

That stopped Bethany's tears when the fire from her glare dried them up. "He saved my life," she hissed. "He's my friend. Besides that, I'd pick most lizards over you, and that includes Gila Monsters and Kimodo Dragons."

The man stared at her. After a moment, he turned away in disgust. "I hate spunky," he muttered to himself as he left the room.

The blonde woman shook her head, moving to another cabinet. When she opened it, warm air wafted from it; Bethany couldn't help moving a little closer. Taking out a thick blanket, Julie laid it over Martin, adding a silvery thermal blanket on top of that. She checked his I.V. line one more time and turned to face her.

"Hello, Bethany. I'm Julie Parish, and this is Mike Donovan," she said, indicating the tall man beside her "Willy and his wife Thelma," she said with a nod towards the two visitors. "Chris Farber," she said of the big, grizzled, sandy-haired man. "And the charming individual who just left is Ham Tyler." She smiled sympathetically. "Your packs will be returned as soon as they're searched. I'm sure you understand that we need to be careful. Come with me, you're freezing, and you look hungry. I can't offer much, but we do have warm showers, dry clothes, and a sandwich."

"Sandwich?" Bethany repeated faintly. She glanced at Martin. "But . . ."

"I'll stay with him' Mike told her. At Bethany's questioning look, he smiled sadly. "He's my friend, too."

She let Julie lead her away. A real shower did feel wonderful even if it was barely lukewarm, and the peanut butter on bread with a glass of powdered milk was ambrosia after weeks of granola. The drab grey sweats that were a little too large felt the best of all.

Her packs were returned as soon as she had eaten. She slid them under Martin's bed, settling in a rickety, rusty chair she found abandoned in a corner. Settling in to wait at the foot of his bed, she watched the fluid drip slowly from the I.V. bag into his vein.

After the first bag emptied, Julie came in to attach a new one and slow down the infusion, adding a second, smaller bag of what she explained was the Visitor version of glucose. "You should get some rest," she said gently. "You look exhausted. Let me show you the dormitory."

Bethany shook her head. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Julie said sternly, but left it alone after that single comment.

Bethany did doze off in the chair. She wasn't sure how long she'd been sleeping when voices outside the door woke her.

". . . wasting resources," Ham Tyler's rough voice growled. "We don't know anything about them. We don't even know if it's really him!"

"It is," Mike's voice answered.

"Even if it is, we don't know where he's been. It's been five years, and then he appears out of the air with a useless little mouse in tow . . . probably intended her for a snack on the way."

"You are one sick bastard," Mike answered. Opening the door, he entered backwards so he could keep glaring.

Tyler followed. "Even after being at war for our existence for this long, you're still a do-gooder," he sneered. Flicking his eyes to Bethany, he lifted his lip derisively. "You should be in an interrogation room, you little spy."

"I'm a paleontologist, not a spy," she snapped.

"What a cutting comeback. What's your story on where the lizard's been?"

"If he wants to tell you, he will."

Tat earned her a dark look from Mike. She gentled a little in sympathy with his obvious worry. "If . . . it comes to a point where he can't, Ill tell you what I know," she said softly.

"Do you know much?" Mike asked. "I thought he . . . I'd like to know where he was, why he didn't come back."

"I don't know a lot," Bethany answered. "We didn't meet that long ago. He . . . mentioned Diana."

Mike paled and covered his eyes.

"I knew it!" Tyler exploded. "He's been converted! He'll give us up the moment . . ."

"I don't think so," Bethany broke in. "He was . . . I got the impression she wouldn't have because she wanted him to suffer . . ." She stopped, flinching at the fact that she'd said so much.

"Got the impression . . ."

"Leave it!" Mike snarled. "Even if it's true, we'll deal with it. He won't be the first one of us who's been converted. Remember, Tyler?"

Flinging out his arms, Tyler strode out, slamming the door behind him.

Bethany and Mike both looked to Martin, and both drooped; there was still no flicker of reaction to his surroundings.

Burrowing back in her chair, Bethany watched him morosely. Was his breathing slower?

Mike touched her shoulder, drawing her eyes to his concerned face. "He'll be all right. He was gutsy enough to get me off Diana's mother ship, and some of the scrapes we got into when he was my assistant . . . he was one of the best I ever had."

Bethany smiled. "He's tenacious," she agreed.

Two days later, he hadn't moved. The last time Willy had come in, he'd been frowning deeply. "He should have come out of it by now."

Shivering, Bethany pulled her chair up next to Martin's head. The only evidence of life was his light, slow breathing and the occasional flicker of his eyes under the lids, and even that seemed to be happening less frequently. Julie tried to talk Bethany into using one of their beds, but she refused. She didn't even like leaving long enough to use the bathroom. She dozed in the chair when she could, got up to pace when she grew stiff, and ate the food Julie, Willy, or Thelma brought periodically. She was afraid to leave-if something happened while she was gone . . . it would feel like the worst of betrayals to leave him alone.

It was getting dark again; she could tell because the hall lights flickered and dimmed outside the door. Mike came in, bringing a glass of water. "Here," he said gruffly. "Julie said you're not drinking enough."

"Thanks," she murmured.

"Anything changed?" he asked, as he usually did.

Bethany shook her head and took a sip.

"If you want to get some rest, I'll stay," he offered. "Julie's right, you need to take better care of yourself, or you're going to be the next one stuck in here."

"I'm all right."

He grunted noncommittally and pulled up a second chair. They sat silently side by side, watching and waiting.

Mike didn't stay long. He was called away by one of the countless grizzled resistance fighters, this one a woman with black, grey-flecked hair and a weathered face. Bethany was glad; she could groan and rub her eyes without getting a look or a comment. Exhaustion pounded in her head as an ache that sent stabs through other points in her brain. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she glared at Martin. "You are one stubborn bastard, you know that?" she told him.

He didn't answer, of course. Huffing, she reached out and took his scaly hand in both of hers. At least Julie had his body temperature stabilized and he was back to cool instead of cold. Wrapping her fingers around his, being careful not to jostle the I.V., Bethany laid her head down on the edge of the bed, quietly calling him every name she could think of.

She thought she'd dozed off again but wasn't sure. She blinked to clear the blur from her eyes, wondering what had brought her back to full awareness. It took her a few seconds to register that someone was shaking her hand.

She looked up, ready to be annoyed, until she realized it was Martin tugging at the fingers that were still holding his.

"That does not look comfortable," he said. His voice cracked, but his eyes were clear and a small smile curled his lip on one side.

"You sound terrible," was all Bethany could think to say.

"Feels like I've been eating dust," he agreed. "Where are we?"

Bethany picked up the glass of water Mike had given her; it was still more than half full. "Your friends found us, although in some cases I question your definition," she said, pushing it into his hand. "Don't you remember anything?"

He sat up carefully, sipping at the water. "Maybe. I . . . We ran into Tyler, didn't we?"

"Yeah. Thanks for the warning."

"Sorry. What happened? I remember Mike being there, then . . ."

"You went down. Willy said you were hibernating."

Martin rubbed at his face. "How long?"

"Two days. Maybe three now. I lost track."

He graoned, stared to say something, and paused, looking at her carefully. "Please tell me you weren't sitting here the whole time."

"Not the whole time, no," she said.

"Yes you were. You look terrible."

"Thanks."

He grinned silently, saluting her with the glass before taking another swallow. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he stretched his shoulders, annoyance flashing across his face when the I.V. tubing ran out of slack. Holding out his hand-theone she'd been holding, but if she didn't think about it she wouldn't blush-he gave her a pleading look. "Could you untie me?"

Bethany jumped back, feeling her face pale. Controlling a gag, she took a deep breath. "I'm not good with needles. Let me get Julie . . ."

"You humans can be so squeamish." Ripping off the tape, he pulled the needle from his hand, pressing his opposite thumb to the drop of green that beaded up.

Averting her eyes, Bethany stood. "I should go get Mike," she murmured. "Julie should look at you . . ."

"No," he said, stopping her with a touch. "They're either sleeping or planning something."

"You should at least have something to eat."

"Not hungry. Did you get everything back from Tyler? I was afraid he might have hurt all your little rocks."

Bethany's eyes popped. She hadn't thought of her fossils in days. "Would he?"

"Not intentionally, no."

Letting out a squeak, Bethany reached under the bed and dragged out her pack. Opening it, she dug into the protected corner when she'd left the precious package. Lifting it out carefully, she opened it, and her shoulders slumped in relief. She lifted them out one by one for inspection-tiny teeth, claws, shells, and the most exciting, a minute skull that was over half complete.

Touching the skull with a gentle finger, Martin blinked at her. "You like this one. Why? It's not even big enough to have been a snack."

"I'm not sure, but I think it's a Heliscomys." At his blank look, she sighed. "They're an early rodent. There's been some debate . . ." She stopped when he still looked blank. "Never mind. It's a paleontologist thing. It'll be a while before I can seriously study it, but maybe someday . . ."

***

Her eyes were getting heavy. Martin slid over, giving her room to sit next to him on the bed. "What's this one?" he asked, holding up a tiny but wicked claw.

"Lizard of some sort, most likely. I'll have to do some comparing."

He kept asking questions and she kept answering, relaxing more with very piece she explained, until her eyes were half open and her voice slurred.

Packing her treasures carefully back in their protective box, Martin put it in her pack, sliding it back under the bed. By the time he looked again, her head was drooping forward. Grasping her shoulders, he pushed her gently onto the mattress, guiding her onto the pillow. She was asleep before she was all the way down, snuggling deeper into the pillow as a small sigh puffed from between her lips.

"Martin!"

Martin flinched, turning to find Mike frozen in the doorway. Setting a finger to his lips for silence, he glanced at Bethany; her eyes flickered, but it was only a moment before she settled back into full oblivion. Rising slowly, he edged away from the bed, gratefully surprised at how steady his legs were.

Mike backed away from the door, nodding. Martin closed the door behind him, leaning back against it. "What did you do to her? She looks terrible," he said.

"She wouldn't leave you. Julie had a time even talking her into eating." Mike's lips twisted wryly. "I think she was protecting you. I'm afraid Ham made quite the impression."

Martin rolled his eyes. "So he's his old charming self."

"Always." His face sobering, he looked uncomfortably intent. "Where were you? Why didn't you come back?"

Martin's eyes dropped, his insides chilling as though he'd just swallowed ice. "Bethany didn't say anything?"

"Only that you saved her life, and that you mentioned Diana."

Felling his mouth crook up despite the cold, Martin met Mike's concerned eyes. "No more than she saved me." He shrugged, one of the very human gestures that he'd quickly adopted. "It wasn't a good place, but it could have been worse."

"Martin . . . I'm sorry. I thought you were dead. When I went back and you were gone, I thought . . ."

"It wasn't your fault. All the red dust immune seemed dead along with the rest at first. And I was stupid. I should have been dead, and I could have gotten you killed, too. I was luckier than I deserved."

Mike looked at him doubtfully, then suddenly flashed one of his lopsided grins. "It's good to have you back, even if you're a little ragged. I missed the best photojournalist I ever worked with."

"It's good to be back."

Swinging an arm across his shoulders, Mike led him down the hall, deeper into the compound. "I bet you're famished. Willy may be a vegetarian, but he raises the fattest mice you've ever seen. They look like rats, I swear."

Martin laughed, and it felt good. "So . . . what did I miss?"


	6. Chapter 6

Bethany shifted, reluctant to open her eyes. She was dry, pleasantly cool instead of cold, and the surface under her was soft and springy, not lumpy with rocks. She stretched, finding her limbs stiff, but not as though they'd been working too hard, more like they hadn't moved in some time.

It should have been a nice way to wake up, but the differences made her nervous. Her eyes snapped open and she lay tense, staring at four walls and a bed.

A bed . . . Martin . . . he was awake and she must have fallen asleep on his infirmary bed. Rubbing her gritty eyes, she sat up, wrinkling her nose at the foul cotton feel of her mouth.

"Good. You're awake. Julie and Thelma are making something special for lunch. Thelma raped . . . no . . . raided her greenhouse," Willie said, peeking through the door. Easing his way inside, he smiled shyly. "They wanted to give Martin a proper welcome. And you." His smile faded a little. "Martin says you saved him, but he won't say from what."

"He did the saving," Bethany croaked. She grimaced at the sound of her own voice. "Good grief, how long was I asleep?"  
"About ten hours. Would you like me to get you a drink of water?"

Smiling at the helpful Visitor, Bethany shook her head. "No, thank you. But if you could hang on while I use the facilities, I would appreciate it if you could show me where to get one."

"Of course." He waited with his customary patience while she freshened herself, then led her to a large room set up as a haphazard dining hall. A dozen or so people were gathered there; Mike and Martin were seated at a small, battered picnic table near the door. Her greeting wasn't as enthusiastic as it could have been, since Ham Tyler was there too, his aggressive face as unfriendly as ever.

Martin waved her over. Willie pushed her gently in their direction. "I'll bring your water."

"Thanks. You're the best."

Martin made room for her and she slid in next to him, smiling shyly at Mike and offering Tyler a cautious nod. Tyler grunted. Mike rolled his eyes. "Ignore him. Sounds like we're in for a treat, you woke up just in time."

"So I heard. Maybe I should help."

"Julie has all the ambulatory wounded helping. Sit and relax," Mike said cheerfully. "I was going to invite Phillip, but . . ."

Bethany jumped at the silent glare Martin threw. "Whoa. I missed something. I know I heard you say the name before, but who's Phillip?"

"Another damned talking gator," Tyler answered.

"My brother," Martin growled.

"Your brother? But what's wrong with that?"

"His twin brother. Maybe you can talk some sense into him." Mike shook his head in disgust. "He won't let me tell his twin brother he's alive."

"Why?" Bethany asked, turning wide eyes on her companion.

"He's as much the leader's lapdog as Diana," Martin snorted. "I don't like Tyler and I never will, but he's right, you trust too easy, even now."

"He's my friend and we owe him more than we'll ever be able to repay," Mike said gently, but with a hint of irritation.

"I can't imagine what his motives are, but don't trust him."

Mike watched his friend leave and even Ham Tyler's eyebrows rose. "Sibling rivalry?" he suggested.

"I have no idea."

Bethany watched Martin go, his shoulders stiff. There was a lot of hurt hidden within that rough voice. Rising, she followed him from the mess hall, catching him halfway back to the infirmary. "Martin, wait. He's just trying to . . ."

"You too?" he snapped. "All my brother cares about is the "honor of the race" and living up to the family's expectations. If he's insinuating himself in with the Resistance, then he's under orders or using Mike to try and climb the ranks a little higher."

Crossing her arms, Bethany shook her head. "I think your friends are smarter than that. Didn't it ever occur to you that your brother could change?"

"No."

She snorted, losing patience with his surly tone. "Don't be an idiot. I lost a brother, and I would give almost anything to get him back. Your brother doesn't have to stay lost. Don't cut yourself off."

His scowl slipped a little "I'm sorry. I didn't . . ."

The lights went out for an instant. They were back on before Bethany could jump, but red lights set every few feet along the wall were flashing. Martin's hand twitched near his hip as if going for a weapon; sprinting back to the mess hall, he met Mike leading the pack o the way out, and the wounded man Julie had first been treating coming from the other way. "Message from Phillip," he gasped. "They found the fugitives and are on their way now!"

"Oh god, the kids," Julie moaned.

"They're trying to draw us out," Mike said. "Trying to find our headquarters. We'll take the Rodeo route and hit them from that way."

"Let's go already, Gooder," Ham urged. "The munchkins are dug in good, but the Visitors'll get to 'em eventually."

"You in?" Mike asked Martin with a grin.

"You have an extra blaster?" Martin returned. He glanced at Bethany. "Have you ever used a gun?"

"Target practice," she admitted."

"Stay here," he ordered. "Help Thelma get the wounded fed." He glared at Tyler's sneer. "Problem, Tyler?"

"Only you."

Bethany watched the noisy, bickering group leave. Thelma slid an arm though hers, squeezing tight. "That happens a lot," she said. "I'd go too, but I'm on infirmary detail. Come on, you still need something to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

Thelma's mild face was suddenly stern. "One of they rules of war is taking care of yourself so you can take care of your friends when they need it. Come on, let's eat, then you can help me pack up so it's all still fresh when they get back."

Her heart was slamming so hard it hurt. "But aren't you worried?"

"Of course. It's not so bad when I'm with them, but when my husband and my friends go and I have to wait and see who comes back, it tears me up." Taking Bethany's hand, she tugged, leading her into the mess hall. "But focusing only on that doesn't do us any good. The best thing for us is doing what we can to help, and that does not include allowing you to faint from hunger."

"You don't look old enough for that kind of wisdom."

"I've learned a lot since Willie showed me humans aren't the vicious animals we were taught."

"Yes we are," Bethany whispered.

Thelma stared at her wide-eyed until she shook herself. "Sorry, you're right. Let's get everyone fed. Suddenly I'm starved."

It felt good to have a blaster at his hip again. He'd spent most of his life with a gun attached, and he felt more complete that way. Julie would tell him it wasn't healthy, and she'd probably be right. At one time he'd substituted a camera and that felt even better, but there wasn't much opportunity for that here. Besides, except for the one destroyed by fire on the night he'd "died," his cameras were probably buried in what was left of his apartment.

"Hey. Wake up," Tyler snapped next to him.

"Sorry." Martin blinked himself back into the now.

"A fighter just went over," Julie whispered. "They're going to get there first."

"They'll hold out for a while," Mike reassured her. "We've got them dug in good."

"But they won't hold out forever," Tyler urged. "Let's go."

"So eager, Ham. Half of them are Fifth Columnists," Mike answered with a smirk, leading them on through a well-hidden tunnel constructed mostly of fallen buildings.

"Half of 'em are kids, too. Green kids are still kids."

Martin glanced at Mike, a smart retort ready to emerge. He kept his jaw welded shut; this was not the time.

They walked an hour before they heard laser blasts. Tyler edged towards a half-open door and Mike flanked him, blaster ready. "We're pretty well hidden here. They won't see us coming. Go!" Tyler barked.

Swarming from the side entrance of a derelict movie theatre, the Resistance waited until they were fully in sight of the battle before howling and opening fire on the red-uniformed soldiers.

Martin charged with the rest, his blaster aimed and ready. The soldiers didn't notice them at first, being too focused on the heavy door they were trying to blast through while evading the fugitives' defensive fire. When they realized they were being fired on from the side as well, half turned to return fire. Martin found himself staring into a dark-haired woman's eyes. The first thing he registered was how young she was, they all were, and how ragged they seemed. The fleet was running thin until another ship made its way from the home world. His finger squeezed on the trigger and she snarled at him, raising her own blaster. Suddenly it was a different face in front of him, a beautiful, coldly triumphant face staring at him over the barrel of his own pistol. His heart gave a queer twisting thud and he froze, his eyes locked with the dark ones.

He was faster; she flinched, waiting for his shot. When it didn't come, she first looked surprised, then a vicious smile spread over her face and she lifted her blaster higher, aiming between his eyes.

Martin tried to force himself to move, but he was utterly paralyzed. It wasn't just fear, it was a mix of emotion—grief, rage, horror—that was too much to process at once. His muscles refused to move.

He heard a rough curse behind him and wondered why Tyler was talking through molasses. The brightness of a laser filled his vision, than a hard shove sent him tumbling, all in slow motion. The heat sizzled past his head and another blast caught the girl in the throat. She flew back and lay still. Martin felt sick.

"If you're planning on a suicide, be my guest, I'd love to see one less of you, but now isn't the time!" Tyler bawled in his ear.

Surging to his feet, Martin forced his shaky legs to follow Tyler into the thick of battle, but he still couldn't raise his blaster.

Mike grunted and went down, his right shoulder smoking. Two shock troopers converged and Martin's brain snapped, his senses speeding to real time and the paralysis falling away. His first shot took out the closer trooper's knee, his second copied Ham's throat shot. Both fell, one howling and clutching his leg, the other laying still.

Suddenly the shooting stopped. The attacking Visitors were dead or too wounded to continue and two Resistance fighters were on the ground. Mike was picking himself up, holding his shoulder. The brown-haired woman would not rise again.

"Poor Constance," Julie whispered. "She was so new."

"She knew what she was getting into," Tyler said gruffly. "Let's get the fugitives out of here before the Dragon Lady sends more of her precious troops." He grinned. "If this keeps up, we'll win just by sheer numbers of fighters."

"Fighters? They were kids," Martin said, shuddering.

"She grows them up quick," Tyler grunted, but he didn't have quite his usual sarcastic edge.

Martin couldn't reply under the man's scathing glance.


End file.
